


Some Nights

by JungleJelly



Series: Lona's Secret Pumpkin [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 08:45:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5122079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JungleJelly/pseuds/JungleJelly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair slammed his fist against the ground, grinding his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut.</p>
<p>No. He wasn’t going to let his thoughts stray in that direction again. He was a templar in all but name, for Andraste’s sake; mental discipline shouldn’t be a problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Nights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lonaargh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lonaargh/gifts).



> I can't even believe I wrote this.
> 
> Okay, just in case people actually end up reading this thing: this is my first fic, please be gentle with me. To quote the wise words of renowned philosopher and scholar Samwell, "I'm delicate like a flower".
> 
> Not betaed, barely even proofread — so it's entirely possible that this is full of grammar mistakes. And logic flaws. And formatting blunders. Just poke me if you spot any!

_Schling._

_Schling._

_Schling._

_Schling._

Alistair frowned down at his hands, currently gripping his sword and whetstone. He needed to focus. He shifted his grip on the sword’s handle and went back to his task, trying to think of nothing but the smooth gliding of the rock on his blade and concentrating on the metallic sound it produced.

_Schling._

_Schling._

_Schling._

A peal of laughter sounded from the other side of the campfire and the stone ripped across the edge with a grating sound. Alistair scowled harder, his whole body tensing and his fingers tightening around the rock before letting go of it altogether. This was no use. Attempting to sharpen his sword in these conditions was only going to result in a nicked blade, and he didn’t have the luxury of a nearby weaponsmith anymore; he couldn’t afford to neglect his own equipment. With a resigned exhale, the warrior gathered his tools and stiffly got to his feet. He walked away from the fire, angry strides bringing him as close to the forest as he dared, before plopping down on the wet grass and rummaging in his pack. He took out a small bottle of oil and poured a few drops on an old rag before he proceeded to drag it across the surface of the blade. His own scowling face was reflected back at him from the gleaming surface. He took a deep breath and tried again to clear his mind of the images it kept conjuring, hoping the physical distance from his companions would help. Thankfully, the sound of their conversations and movements was slightly muffled from here, only the loudest words reaching Alistair’s ears in an indistinct jumble. The fire was still crackling merrily a few yards away, casting flickering shadows between the tents and bathing the camp in a warm light.

Alistair allowed himself to relax, giving his whole attention to the task at hand. He ran the oiled cloth gently over his sword in long, sweeping strokes. Helped by the repetitive motion, his body lost some of its tension and his mind started wandering.

The two Grey Wardens and their mismatched band of rejects were currently camped on the outskirts of the Brecilian forest. The Dalish elves, when they met them for the first time earlier that day, had proven just as skittish as expected and kept a wary eye on all the company’s movements. Establishing their temporary base inside the elven settlement was out of the question, at least until a more trusting relationship was built with the clan leaders.

Months had passed since the battle of Ostagar, but they were no closer to exposing Loghain for the traitor that he was than they were at the start of their journey.

Well, that wasn’t quite true; they had, at least, managed to enlist the help of the mages — such as they were. The Circle was in tatters, struggling to pick up the pieces left behind by Uldred’s abominations and already stretched thin without the added menace of the Blight. Still, they had sworn to help the Wardens push back the darkspawn to the best of their ability. That was nothing to scoff at, despite the Circle’s weakened state; Alistair had seen firsthand how very powerful magic could be when wielded by competent hands. Darkly powerful, like the events of Redcliffe had illustrated so gruesomely — an army of undead led by a single demon and able to thoroughly ravage such a prominent city. Other times, it shone like a beacon of hope, like it had when Irving and his mages had brought Connor back from the demon’s clutches and saved Isolde from a terrible death.

Then there were the times he wasn’t quite sure about. Flemeth seemed like a crazy old bat, but Alistair wasn’t dumb, no matter what anyone said about him; the witch was immensely powerful. More than the First Enchanter himself, even; more than anyone he’d ever met. If the way she’d saved them from the darkspawn horde at the top of the tower wasn’t indication enough, then his templar instincts surely were. Never had Alistair felt as unsettled as he did when he was faced with this rambling, cackling, deceivingly frail woman.

And her daughter! Maker, that one was deranged for sure. A powerful ally to have, but deranged. To think that she could transform at will into a gigantic spider… not that Morrigan wasn’t already plenty disturbing in her human form. Her eyes were always following him, her mocking stare sending shivers down his spine and clinging to him like an unwanted, slimy parasite. And what was with the creepy make-up? And the skirt made of leather flaps that could be human skin for all he knew? Maker, she had probably sewn that together from the flayed hide of some unlucky templar who had the misfortune of been sent on a mission in the Korcari wilds. Alistair shuddered at that mental image. Even aside from its dubious origin, the thing was ugly. And so impractical! Who needed to have their own garments flying and flapping around distractingly during combat? The whole outfit was ridiculous, really. Although, the worst part would have to be that tiny scrap of burgundy fabric that—

He slammed his fist against the ground, grinding his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut.

No. He wasn’t going to let his thoughts stray in that direction again. He was a templar in all but name, for Andraste’s sake; mental discipline shouldn’t be a problem.

Except it was. It had become a problem, whether he wanted to acknowledge it or not. He’d been having all these… feelings, lately. Feelings of constant... awareness, maybe? They were threaded with tension and an undercurrent of dissatisfaction, of something that he needed being always just out of reach.

Alistair exhaled and took his head between his hands, trying to parse through his jumbled thoughts.

It had all started with Morrigan. Cursed, blasted Morrigan. Always there when you didn’t want her around, forever skulking in the shadows and ready to tear into her unsuspecting prey with a debilitating jinx or a well-placed jab about its intelligence. While the witch was repulsive to him on almost every level, his eyes couldn’t help but wander towards the pale expanses of skin that her outfit left exposed. And Maker, but there was a lot of it. It was like the woman had tried to find the most revealing garment in Thedas and decided to wear it into battle as a way to distract her opponents. Not a bad strategy in itself, except for the fact that the one distracted ended up being Alistair.

He couldn’t help it. All that creamy skin, put on display before his eyes and undulating under the witch’s movements, looking as soft to the touch as its wearer was wild and prickly.

So, yes, it had taken a while for Alistair to adjust to having a permanently half-naked apostate in their little group. And when he finally got his feet under himself, life decided to throw another hurdle in his path, because he was just that lucky.

Leliana was different. From the very beginning, it was clear that she was a few slices short of a loaf; but her oddness and apparent frivolity seemed to hide something darker, more dangerous.

This was only compounded when the rogue noticed his… undue interest... in Morrigan’s physique. She started to give him sly looks and subtle winks when she caught him in the act of a slightly-too-long stare. The first time it happened, Alistair blushed like a Chantry schoolboy and stammered a string of indecipherable syllables before giving up and turning away, red-faced with embarrassment. When he finally got used to the coy looks and stopped reacting, she seemed to take it as a challenge and a slight to her own charms, and thus it was that Alistair found himself on the receiving end of Leliana’s endless teasing.

It took various forms, and the minx delighted in using the widest possible array of techniques to fluster him. Sometimes, she gave him long looks from under her lashes and affected a bashful smile — the innocent act wasn’t convincing in the slightest, but nevertheless it never failed to make Alistair’s eyes widen and his skin flush. If she was feeling particularly playful, she would pout prettily or wet her lips, looking right at him all the while; or she would sit next to him at mealtimes, graze his fingers when they “accidentally” reached for the same object and brush against him when she got up from the table. Other times, she used her flowery language and cunning way with words to entice him; she called his name and rolled it on her tongue in a truly impressive display of obscenity masquerading as guilelessness. The worst, though… the worst was the sounds. She liked to accompany her movements with them; all of it for his benefit, no doubt. After exercising, before a practice spar, in the morning to stretch out the kinks, in the evening to let loose the day’s tension — all were excellent occasions to torture Alistair. Her slender back would arch invitingly, her dainty hands high in the air above her head, and the thrice-damned tease would let out a shameless moan or a tremulous sigh before returning to a (slightly) more decent posture and sending him a wink over her shoulder. With such expert and blatant baiting, it was a wonder the warrior had retained his sanity for this long.

And then there was his fellow Warden.

He was grateful for her presence at his side; truly, he was. He never would have gotten so far on his own after Ostagar, and that wasn’t even taking into account the fact that he probably wouldn’t have even reached the beacon in the first place if not for her. Quite simply, he owed her his life several times over. They had shared an easy camaraderie from the first time they met, and he thanked the Maker every day for blessing him with such a faithful companion in the midst of the horror that had encompassed every other aspect of his life. Their relationship was uncomplicated, free of the normal constraints of human interaction; as the only two remaining Grey Wardens in Ferelden, theirs was a bond of unshakeable trust and mutual support. In his eyes, Elissa wasn’t a nobleman’s daughter, a rogue fighter or even a woman; she was a Warden, and that was that.

What he hadn’t planned on was that he would surprise her during his patrol of the camp perimeter one day, barely clothed and still wet from her long soak in the nearby lake.

He almost didn’t recognize her.

Her hair was hanging over her shoulder and dripping water over the light tunic she had donned after her wash. This one little detail seemed to make all the difference in the world. He’d never seen her with her hair down before — she always kept it tied in some sort of bun, which was certainly the more logical choice for someone whose life consisted entirely of traveling, dodging thugs and assassins, more traveling, and slaughtering monsters. Whatever the reason, the effect was striking and Alistair stood rooted to the spot for a few seconds before he gathered enough presence of mind to direct his feet to turn around and walk away.

She hadn’t seen him that day, thankfully. She had a warrior’s instincts, and he was gratified that she apparently relied on him enough to trust that he would protect the camp’s surroundings and allow her to let her guard down entirely. He had tried to concentrate on that notion instead of letting his whirring thoughts drag him back to the vision she had presented—

It was no use. The image was seared into his brain, no matter how objectively harmless the encounter had been. It had barely lasted half a minute, and she was just sitting on a flat rock, scrubbing the grime out of her clothes and looking perfectly normal.

In a thin tunic that slipped over her shoulder and barely reached the bend of her knees.

Wearing her wet hair down in front of him for the first time ever.

Her wet hair that, incidentally, left damp patches on said tunic in the most interesting patterns.

Alistair whimpered and dug his knuckles into his eye sockets, wishing he could just erase the picture from his mind. Alas, that seemed unlikely. There would be no forgetting, no turning back time and telling his former self to take another patrol route that day, and there would especially be no salvaging the relationship he used to have with Elissa.

Not that their relationship was irreparably ruined, or even visibly changed to the outside eye; it was a subtler shift, one that he had done his very best to conceal even from their traveling companions. She was still their implicit leader and his closest friend, although both of these attributes had fallen to her by default. He had simply been forced to acknowledge a part of her that, for all intents and purposes, he had been unaware of before.

Elissa’s femininity suddenly stopped being an abstract concept when it was shoved in his face so brutally during what Alistair privately thought of as ‘the lake incident’. Now, it was a fact he had to live with in their daily interactions, as small, previously insignificant occurrences kept reminding him. He abruptly began noticing these things; like the women giggling with their heads close together, or one of them handing a hair comb or some such item to the other; like the occasional stray lock of hair that fell out of a bun, or the faint smell of some flowery soap that sometimes lingered in the air.

It wouldn’t matter at all, though, if only Alistair were able to control his own body’s reaction to this little revelation. Which he wasn’t — and hadn’t that been a pleasant surprise.

He wasn’t born yesterday. Templar recruits didn’t live such a sheltered life that they had no knowledge of what sex was, even though it was a topic severely frowned upon and their training didn’t exactly allow for many real opportunities. Besides, he had been exposed to plenty of his fellow Wardens’ experience later on, after Duncan recruited him into their ranks. More than he would have preferred, even; he could probably fill a book with all the — usually unwanted — tales of sexual prowess his brothers in arms had regaled him with.

The point was, Alistair wasn’t completely ignorant in the ways of… love. He had touched himself before. His Chantry education had left him with a regrettable tendency to feel guilty about such things, but he had learned to quiet that insidious voice inside his head. There was nothing wrong about doing… that, he knew. However, is was an entirely different matter when the formless thoughts guiding your hand started to take on a decidedly recognizable shape; like, say, the shape of _a very dear and highly valued friend_. That had never happened before Elissa. He had no idea what to do about it, except for the very clear notion that he absolutely _should not_ consider giving in to these urges.

And that was how the templar found himself here, sitting alone in the dark where the light of the fire couldn’t reach, purposely distancing himself from his companions. It wasn’t always so bad — thank the Maker — but from time to time, he would get into a hopelessly irate mood and just need some time to himself before he could rein in his emotions. He wasn’t sure what the trigger was, it seemed to vary every time — but he suspected that the combination of Elissa’s splendid mood on this particular day and the elf’s ridiculous attempts at seduction had something to do with it.

Of course, it was equally probable that denying himself any pleasure for the past few weeks had a hand in his foul mood, too. But there wasn’t much he could do about that, was there? As long as his fantasies kept featuring a certain Warden, he wouldn’t give into this; he couldn’t. It felt wrong.

With an aggrieved sigh, Alistair picked his rag back up and went back to his chore. Entertaining these morose thoughts wouldn’t be any help; what he needed was a distraction, and the mindless task of caring for his weapons, while not exactly exciting, was a welcome one. He soon sank back into the familiar ritual, the repetitive movements helping his mind relax, and thankfully avoiding the unwelcome daydreaming he had fallen into earlier.

He was so engrossed that time passed without his notice and, before he knew it, the fire had died down and the little group had dispersed for the evening. He blinked, surprised, before he started gathering his tools and stowing them carefully into his pack. The night had turned quiet, only the dying fire crackling unobtrusively and a few of the group’s members shuffling inside their respective tents. Stifling a yawn with one hand, Alistair patted the ground around him to make sure he hadn’t forgotten, got to his feet and dusted himself off. One of the slowly burning logs produced a loud pop, startling him and drawing his eyes towards the fire. The warrior was shaking his head at his own jumpiness, thinking it high time that he get some rest, when he caught it out of the corner of his eye.

He froze.

There, right in front of him, Elissa’s silhouette was projected in the flickering light of the embers. She was obviously changing for the night; her hands seemed to be pulling at the buckles on her leather chestpiece. Her shadowy frame moved over the tent’s canvas, unsuspecting of its rapt audience and perfectly mirroring the motions of the woman inside.

Alistair wanted to tear his eyes away. He did. Even as his gaze stayed fixed to the hypnotizing sight in front of him, he could feel a wave of emotions warring inside him — terror, guilt, trepidation, shame, excitement. He desperately tried to gather whatever shred of resolve he still had in him at this point when—

The chestpiece fell to the ground, and she began to tug at the strings holding her tunic closed.

Maker. He was doomed.

The warrior was powerless to do anything but stand and watch as the fabric was loosened in increments, deft fingers making quick work of the laces. He gulped, his eyes tracing the movements avidly and waiting for the moment when…

There. There it was. The cloth bunched in her hands as she slid it up her torso and over her head.

Alistair’s breath caught in his throat. This was… This was…

This was wrong. Here he was, witnessing his friend in a private moment and getting painfully aroused at the sight of her bare chest outlined in faint shadows. And yet, he knew he had already lost. He had let himself get in too deep and there was no turning back from this now. His gaze followed Elissa’s movements as she continued undressing and he couldn’t hold back his pitiful whine when she reached up to her hair and unbound it, letting it fall in thick waves down her back.

He would feel lower than dirt tomorrow.

But for right now, he told himself as he slipped his fingers beneath the waistband of his breeches, he would allow himself this, just this once.

No one had to know.

**Author's Note:**

> AKA: Alistair strokes his sword, and then Alistair strokes his sword.
> 
> ...I was going to type that into "Summary", but then I didn't. Should I have? I should have, right? Hm...
> 
>  
> 
> _What the hell is this? I mean, what? One big block of text without a SINGLE line of dialogue?! Why the fuck... Who... What..._
> 
>  
> 
> I don't know, okay? This is what came to me. My brain is a strange place. Promise, next one will actually have dialogue and THINGS HAPPENING in it.


End file.
